


Little Pieces (Make a Life)

by RenaRoo



Series: Angst War [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a toll paid by each adventure, and the Batman has paid more than his share. Death is inevitable, but what is left behind will make the difference. It will make a life worth living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Pieces (Make a Life)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/gifts).



> Prompt: ( goodluckdetective ) Angst war prompt! Bruce is terribly sick, on death's bed. How does everyone cope?
> 
> This is still one of my favorite fics I've written for any fandom.

There's a part of Dick, one he's not overly proud of, that is thankful that Tim, no matter the awfulness of the previous night or their general tardiness getting back to the cave in the morning, will forcefully eject himself from his bed at seven to make it to WE promptly. Because Tim, and Dick _will_ remember to thank him someday for it, always leaves the next cup of coffee ready to be claimed in the machine.

In socks, the pair of spandex shorts he rolled into bed in, and a loose shirt he grabbed from the floor, Dick achingly pushes himself onto the counter top and sits with a sigh. His hands curled around the coffee mug.

It had been a long few months.

And he'd be lying if he said that living in the Manor fully for the first time in years wasn't increasingly getting to him. That wasn't even taking into account the circumstances.

Sometimes it feels like the cup of coffee waiting for him in the morning is the only thing getting him up.

He's still gazing off into nothing when Alfred comes into the kitchen briskly, still in his finest suit and overcoat, his prim bowler on his head but dripping from the rain. He must be back from dropping Damian off at school. Normally that's Dick's job, but considering Batman didn't wrap things up until _five_ this morning and Gotham Academy's first bell is at _eight,_ that wasn't about to happen.

Dick puts the mug down to the side. "Mornin', Alfie," he says, voice still scratchy from little sleep. He reaches up and rubs at his throat, skin scraping against stubble.

"And good morning to you, Master Dick," Alfred says, looking to the clock. He hasn't exactly stopped his motion so much as he's hesitated between steps.

It's… _unsettling_ to see Alfred flustered.

"What's up, Alfred?" Dick asks, scooting off the counter. "C'mon. Take your coat off, stay awhile."

Alfred's mouth twitches and he looks to Dick, carefully guarded. "I am afraid I am running rather… off schedule, Sir. Our good doctors will require transportation shortly, and I have still yet to get Master Bruce to take even the first bite of his breakfast this morning. If possible he has grown even more stubborn."

That much Dick had bore witness to. Still, he draws his brows together in concern and looks seriously to Alfred. "When did he eat last?"

"Yesterday afternoon. Almost four. Hardly enough to be a meal."

Closing his eyes, Dick takes a breath and shakes his head, hands on his hips now. He isn't sure anymore if he is angry at Bruce or if it's all pity and grief.

It isn't his favorite subject to concentrate on.

"I would have been back soon enough to handle this all had there not been this rain and an accident just outside of Bristol.

"Always at the worst times, huh?" Dick says lightly before looking to the tray and cover-dish by the stove. "I don't think I can see straight enough to drive, Alfred. But I might just be grumpy enough to handle Bruce this morning if you trust me to give it a go.

The heavy silence is enough to draw Dick's attention and have him look Alfred in the eyes.

There are lines on the old butler's face that Dick has never seen before, and a slope to his thin lips that hasn't seemed to have changed since the diagnosis.

Bruce's death had broken Alfred a little, in small ways. Bruce _dying_ is steadily killing him.

It's killing _all_ of them.

"Would you, Richard?" Alfred says, his voice still so strong despite everything.

"Of course," Dick responds. He grabs the mug of coffee from behind him and, in a bit of a zealous display even for him, finishes it off in one go. "Though, if you can't do it, I don't promise any miracles."

That manages a small smile from the elderly man. Alfred claps Dick's shoulder gently as the younger grabs the tray of food. Says, "Had I the time, Sir, I assure you Master Bruce would have had his meal _and_ a dessert, whether he ate it himself or I had to spoon feed him."

Dick chokes on a snort, looks at Alfred with a wide grin and nods as the man makes his exit again. There's a bit of a strain where Dick pulled a muscle in his back last night, but if he managed to carry the three survivors from a building with it, he's certain he can get french toast on rye and eggs up to the master bedroom.

All things considering, the walk to Bruce's room is rather brisk. While Titus would usually be underfoot, the combined absence of Damian and the gloom of a rainy day with occasional thunder clap has the brave and arduous guard dog squatted and terrified underneath his boy's bed. No one's really home with Alfred left again save for Dick, Cass, and Bruce.

Passing Cass' closed door has Dick take pause, back two steps to face it more directly, and then gently rap his knuckles against the panels.

He's not even sure if she stirs, but Dick likes to think it's the little annoyances that remind his siblings he cares.

Once he reaches the master, Dick makes the rapping more forceful, edging on a full knock.

"Yes?"

Dick frowns, thinking how unfair it is to _hear_ Bruce, who still sounds thunderous, irritated, and strong with his low baritones and stern annunciation, before _seeing_ Bruce. He buries the thought before entering the room.

"You're supposed to be asleep," Dick says cheekily as he kicks the door shut behind him and relishes the small things. Like the way Bruce scowls at the reprimand.

The deterioration was fast, had already begun to occur before the diagnosis had been given and was unyielding after it. Bruce isn't quite emaciated, but having only seen him two or three months prior one could see how hollow his cheeks look, the way his hair now lacks luster and is thin, or how the loss of muscle has caused the sleeves of his night shirt to cling tighter.

Omega Radiation. The only known survivor of it had been Bruce, and a mere two years after exposure it has already come back to test that claim.

Still, Bruce sat up straight and dared to glare defiantly at his eldest son.

"You only came back thee hours ago, Dick," Bruce says, looking increasingly off-put as Dick got a stand for the food tray and began to bring it over to the bed. "I already told Alfred I'm not hungry."

"Hmm," Dick hums as he sets up the food and places it over Bruce's lap. He then sits, legs drawn up and crossed on the bed with him, just next to his father's legs. "Maybe. But I'm not Alfred and you haven't told _me,_ yet," he says. He then looks to the food, always smirking as he consciously neglects eye contact with Bruce to drive him just _that_ much more nuts. He pulls the cover-dish off of the breakfast platter. "Oh, hey. I'm jealous. All this just for you?"

Bruce glares at him flatly, a low growl coming from his throat. "I'm not in the mood, Dick."

"Bruce, if we waited for you to be 'in the mood' for things, do you realize how little we'd get done?" Dick asks as he grabs the fork and knife for himself and begins to cut the eggs up.

"I'm serious."

"And who says I'm not?" Dick asks before finally giving Bruce the eye contact he is so desperate for. "Look, Alfred made you breakfast so you can take these pills Leslie got for us. You need food to take _with_ the pills, but maybe Alfred was overzealous. That's a lot of food for such small pills. So, maybe -- just _maybe_ \-- we can make this easy and if you eat about half of this stuff and take your pills before Alfred's back with the Doctor Mid-Nite and Leslie, I'll eat the rest with you. How's that sound?"

The unamused snarl on Bruce doesn't seem happy. "It _sounds_ like you're treating me like a child."

Dick smiles all teeth and offers the utensils. "What is it you used to say? 'You don't have to like me, just do what I say?'"

With his soured expression not improving, Bruce takes them and begins to eat his food. "It wasn't that harsh."

"Yeah, I was only eight. Not sure why I took it to heart," Dick baits.

"You were a teenager and acting out of line," Bruce refutes before taking a small bite of eggs. He smirks and looks at Dick a little softer in expression. "Don't test me."

Dick laughs before putting a hand on Bruce's knee and gently shaking it. "Wouldn't dream of it, B. Wouldn't dream of it."

He reaches with his hands for a cut of eggs only to get a firm smack. Dick laughs and withdraws, making the pang of _hurt_ just a little easier to ignore for now. Not that the hurt ever leaves. It hasn't left in months.

And there's the concern that once there's no more laughter, they'll all see -- especially Bruce -- all Dick is, is _scared._

*

Easing the heels of his boots onto the hardwood, Jason slides the rest of the way in easily. Logic dictates that had they not wanted him in they wouldn't have made the windows so easy to open. Easy being relative as it took two tries and he's pretty sure Alfred won't mention the chipping of the frame outside thanks to his knife -- everything's relative, really.

He's home free when he sees Dick turn the corner only to jump a solid foot back upon catching a glimpse of Jason hanging out of the window.

_"Jay!?"_

With Dick, everything's easier when taken casually. It took a few years to catch on to the trick, but Jason's slowly mastered it.

"Dickface?"

He pushes off from the ledge before promptly turning and shutting the window behind him. Jason then makes a point of leaning forward and examining the seal. "We should get this looked at, it's a definite security problem. Hope not all the windows are like this."

Truth is, if they _are,_ this place is only half a step from Fort Knox.

"Only the ones on the third story," Dick mutters as he approaches, still looking questioningly at Jason. "What're you doing here?"

That earns an overly offended gasp from Jason before the younger vigilante turns sharply to begin walking toward the library. "You make it sound like I'm uninvited."

"No," Dick says, doing his level best to not sound concerned that he slipped up, but it's there all over his face. There's a reason it's no longer fun to play poker in the family. They know each other too well, studied their shows too much. "Just most people who aren't _planning_ something tend to come through the front door.'

"Bull," Jason huffs. "I will always use the backdoor, and you know it. And for the record, I'm here to steal some supplies. Saw Babybird use some neat smoke bombs, though they could do better with someone who's more inventive with them."

He doesn't even have to look at Dick to tell how much the older man is buying it.

"Ah huh."

Dick follows him a few steps before Jason rounds on him, putting on his best growl. "What? And maybe I'm out of good books and since none of you have good enough tastes to appreciate the goddamn library we have, I'll be taking some of those off your hands! Got a problem with it?"

The way Dick's eyes shine at him despite the deep, purple bags around his eyes and the worry lines collected on his brow is how Jason catches his mistake. 'We.' _Damn it._

"He's actually sitting in the parlor, so… y'know," Dick says with a casual shrug. "That might cut your time down some."

"Don't give me lip," Jason all but hisses in return. He looks off, trying to think of a cunning retort when he hears an aggravating noise from behind him and to the left.

Turning, Jason sees Dick running his knuckles across the bedroom doors as he walks down the hall toward the kitchen.

It's such a strange action that Jason doesn't have the capacity to make a witty commentary out of it. Instead he shakes his head, mutters 'freak,' and heads to the library … and makes his way to the parlor instead.

Suddenly it feels as if all that energy and the simple _urge_ that got him from the East End to here to begin with has drained itself right out of his body. He's not… there's no certainty in what he's going to do or say, and suddenly he's questioning whether or not he ever had a clear idea of what he was going to do or say to begin with.

His only thought isn't a good one, but he's certain that it's what's going to come out the moment he sees…

Jason Todd is nothing if not a ballsy man, though, and it's almost on impulse that he nudges the parlor door open, grasping desperately at his usual sardonic wit to carry him through this moment ('who the fuck needs a parlor', 'do you know how many free lunches this lamp could be worth', 'tip a guy off on how to get rid of your army of child soldiers, they're mucking up my groove').

But somehow his throat just feels dry at seeing Bruce.

The man is… so much older than Jason remembers him being. He remembers so clearly seeing him for the first time after everything, after being so mad that he had the nerve to die on them, and all Jason could think was 'you'll outlive us all, I've never seen you look so fresh.'

He never dreamed that, out of all of them, Bruce has been the one harboring a literal time bomb in his own blood.

Bruce should be in his mid-forties, but the man sitting on the divan is in his early seventies at best, at least twenty years separating him from the visage Jason got a month and a half ago, when he decided he couldn't take the replacement's word alone on what was happening to their -- to Bruce.

Aware as ever, Bruce looked up from his book and actually looked fairly surprised to see Jason over the rim of his reading glasses.

Well, Jason supposed if he was nothing else in life, he could still be surprising to the old man.

"That book's a little below your reading level," Jason offers, shoving his hands as deep as they could go into his jacket's pockets.

"It's… a favorite," Bruce says, his brows knitting together as if he's unsure about the taste of his own words. "My mother collected the first editions for the whole set."

"Yeah?" Jason continues, looking to his feet and wondering idly if he had accidentally tracked mud through the house. "I… My mom. Y'know, she watched the reruns of the show, god, just about every day." He huffs, amused. "I think we've had this conversation before."

He looks up and sees a soft expression on Bruce, one that's been gone for a long time.

"I think we have."

Before things were too complicated. Before they both had to face death and return. Before… well, before.

They fall into silence and Bruce puts his bookmark in and sets _Little House_ to the side. It becomes heavy in the room, somehow, and there's the strange sense that Jason is suffocating. He reaches up and pulls the neck of his shirt a little further from his skin to get relief that doesn't come.

For a moment, Jason wonders if Bruce will bother with small gestures, offering him a place to sit or something, but the silence carries on a bit longer and Jay remembers precisely who he's dealing with.

 _'Would you at least try?'_ the pretender had begged in the same breath Jason had questioned how he was found.

The kid looked pathetic enough that Jay actually figured he'd give it a chance.

It's the only reason he crosses the floor without further provocation and plops onto the ground right in front of Bruce's chair, ignoring the way his various zippers jingle in a way that would drive the assassin brat's dog nuts, no doubt.

Bruce… He somehow seems more at ease after Jason gets closer.

"I came all the way here because I want to talk to you," Jason clarifies, as if it wasn't already obvious. "And I'm tired and cranky because I haven't been able to sleep in four days thanks to the nice lathering of guilt your stool pigeon tried to give me."

There's a line of confusion drawn on Bruce's face.

"Tim," Jason explains.

That only causes more concern. "You've seen Tim?"

"Yeah," Jason responds, raising a brow. He catalogues that away to get to the bottom of later. If he stops now, he's fairly certain none of this would ever get out of his system. "I … when I came back, I decided on not living with anymore regrets, okay? I… don't want you to be a regret."

Whatever train of thought mentioning the replacement had given Bruce was, once more, derailed at this announcement. He is, if possible, even more straight up and alert. It is a bizarre show of what Jason can only classify as fear. It makes Jason even more uncomfortable.

"…Alright."

"I'm still mad at you," Jason says as lowly as possible while Bruce can still hear it. "I… I think I might always be a little mad at you. But I needed you to know that… that it's not the only thing I feel anymore. I don't know if it ever _was_ the only thing. It's just… easiest to wear."

Bruce nods to let him know to continue.

"When… when we thought you died. Bruce, I was so _furious_ and I just wanted to give up," he admits with a drawn breath. "But… I realized I wasn't… I wasn't _just_ angry. And… And hating you wasn't making feel any better either, right? It was just pissing me off even more. I couldn't stand it. Because who hates the dead? Especially when… when you never, not _really,_ wanted them dead to begin with."

Pausing, Jason releases a shaky breath but doesn't look away. Jay studies Bruce, his shows. The way his shoulders are raised just slightly higher in preparation for _something,_ in the sharpness of his eyes and the tight line of his mouth. There's a thick tension in the air between them and it is smothering.

"I just… I don't know much of anything about… about this. About what's going on," Jason admits. "It's hard to believe, honestly. I don't _want_ to believe but… I can't let you think anymore that… that all I am is angry. Because I'm not. I'm…"

"You've always been more than that," Bruce interrupts at long last, his voice far softer than Jason has heard it. In years, at least. "I… I know. And I know… how hard it is to say things… even in the face of imminent--"

Jason screws his eyes shut and holds up his hands to stop the old man. _"Don't,"_ he warns with a hiss, ignoring how the corners of his eyes are stinging. "Fuck, B. _Don't_ … don't say _that._ Alright?"

He looks back at Bruce's face when he can manage it, shaking his head just slightly. "It's just hard to say," he summarizes. "For us."

"But it never should have been," Bruce responds, his eyes far more open, more vulnerable than Jason thinks he has ever seen them. "I… I have _always_ loved you, Jason. You are my son, you always _will_ be my son. And… I love you."

Before the last utterance is even out, Jason looks to his knees and blinks rapidly. His eyelashes flutter over the tears but despite the best attempts, it does nothing to keep them away. He roughly rubs his sleeve across the bridge of his nose to take care of it instead.

"Damn it, Bruce," Jason mutters between shaking breaths.

He doesn't shrug off the hand on his shoulder, and when he feels Bruce drop beside him, he simply follows the tug that pulls him into his father's arms. His face pressed into the old man's collar bone, Jason releases a cry that has been weighing on his chest for so long he's almost forgotten about it.

They stay this way, undisturbed, for a long time.

*

Titus' nails have gotten too long and are scraping the floors when he gets overly excited and runs amok around the manor. It has caused Pennyworth to be uncharacteristically brief in his reprimand to Damian which was… an unnatural and dreadful feeling the heir has no desire to repeat.

If Father had been well, Damian suspects everyone would be behaving normally.

As it stands, he has Todd sitting at the island in the kitchen eating oatmeal and watching the Gotham Wildcats or Knights or _whatever_ Drake kept changing their name to on the mostly unused screen under the cabinet.

Before Todd moved in, Damian didn't even know they _had_ that in the kitchen.

Now he wishes ill will toward the device.

Todd looks enough over his shoulder to quirk a thick brow at Damian before shoving another spoonful of oats into his mouth. Normally, brotherly affection would dictate a morning greeting to cap off this exchange.

Damian makes his way around the island and counters to search the drawers facing the garage. There was a manicure set for Titus among the various collars and treats. Judging by how Titus sat and began thumping his tail, he was about to be gravely disappointed by what is going to be pulled out.

Someone scores and Todd makes a guttural noise.

Damian grabs the nail clips and levels a glare in his "brother's" direction.

"Are you still abusing our hospitality, Todd?" Damian snaps as he slams the drawer shut. Titus cries.

"Yes," he responds without a moment to spare before waving his hand at the screen. "Fumble! _Fumble!"_  

The future Batman glares at his predecessor for a few more seconds, clamping down on his molars to keep from giving the former Robin something to fight back with. The last two weeks has taught him that, unlike the others, Todd is more than happy returning exactly what he's given.

At least with Drake, it takes the smallest of comments from Damian before the teen has lost control of his cool edge. And since Father's illness, it's not like Damian has heard the first word from Drake.

The youngest Wayne isn't sure if anyone other than Grayson and Pennyworth has managed to get more than one or two syllables from him between patrol and work.

Damian doesn't care, though. He doesn't care how _any_ of them have been acting. He just wants it to stop and return to normal. _Soon._

Satisfied that Todd is too absorbed with the game to give any further annoyances, Damian grabs onto Titus' collar before the dog could begin to scoot away and drags him closer to the window for better lighting. The dog's whining is incessant, but Damian couldn't care less.

In all the times he has trimmed Titus' nails only once was he too short. He vowed never to do it again, but it's not like the dog has _forgotten._ The bumbling oaf.

"Sit! _Sitz!"_ Damian commands, causing the dog to reluctantly do just as he is told.

Damian pulls the first front paw up and holds tightly, ignore the lackluster pulling Titus is giving him in response. One tug from Damian, the dog stops resisting. But the whining increases.

"Seriously?" Todd asks.

"Got a problem in _my_ house, Todd?" Damian snaps in return.

Titus whines, and both brothers stop at the sound of a group of heavy feet and the rap of knuckles on the other side of the wall. Both glance toward the doorway, as if they don't know who's going to be walking down the hall.

Pennyworth is leading Dr. Thompkins and Dr. Mid-Nite toward Father's room again, all speaking in hushed tones. Behind them is Grayson, the traitor, who is the only one who has been privy to all the various (useless) treatments and check-ups other than Pennyworth himself. Father is a strictly private man, and apparently does not enjoy the full extent of this illness to be shared with _all_ of the family.

Damian should be the only one in the room with him.

He notices only a hair too late that he's squeezing Titus' paw too hard and the overgrown pup mouths at him with a cry. Damian lets go.

Grayson stops and leans into the kitchen, eyes searching for the source of the noise. He spots them all and nods to Todd. It's returned. His tired blue eyes settle on Damian and Titus.

"Do that outside, Dami, it'll be less to clean up," Grayson says like a request, despite the fact that they all know it's an order. He's been using that tone with Damian more frequently lately and it's getting on the boy's last nerve. "But thank you for doing that for Alfred."

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Damian snidely returns, glancing to the group of medical professionals leaving Grayson behind.

That causes Dick's face to falter slightly, but he manages a curt nod all the same. He turns and leaves without his usual flourish.

As he gets up, Damian gets out the command, _"Aus,"_ to direct Titus to the screen door before he feels his shoulder grabbed by Todd's broad hand. He's pulled back before he can think twice and spun around to look the older man in the face.

Todd's glare is… intimidating in its own right. "Let up on Dick," he warns. "We're all on edge. He doesn't need your shit."

Damian glares right back. "I'm not afraid of you, Todd. And you can't tell me what to do. Not in _my_ house --"

He isn't expecting the action, which will forever be his excuse as to why Jason Todd was able to flick him, _hard,_ right between his eyes. Damian is so bewildered he has to take half a step back and just _stare_ at Todd.

The look he gets in return is less than amused. "You'll thank me for this later," Todd says. "Just remember that I _can_ hurt you, I maybe even _will_ hurt you, but it ain't going to be any worse than how you'll feel a year or two from now about how you're treating Dick right now."

"You… You can't do _anything_ to me," Damian growls before sharply turning and heading for the slide door where Titus waits anxiously. _"No one_ can do anything to me!"

He highly doubts Todd will ever mention to anyone how Damian slams the door shut behind himself. The delinquent has done it far too often himself to be _that_ hypocritical.

It's barely noon by the time Damian manages to get the last of Titus' nails clipped, and if it weren't for the burning tears it would have been done much sooner. Still, for Gotham it's a rather calm Sunday afternoon and he's tired of the manor and everyone within it already.

Instead, he sits outside on the grass, and flippantly tosses Titus' rubber ball for him. By the fifth throw it already feels like he's been outside for hours, and the wind is picking up enough that Titus takes a rather long path around the hedges to avoid bristling limbs.

"Stupid dog," Damian mutters with no bite as he draws his knees up to his chest.

He thinks, maybe, he's growing some. It feels like he doesn't know what to do with his limbs anymore. He wonders if this is how Grayson, Todd, and Father felt at his age. He's fairly certain Drake never had a growth spurt and Cain and Pennyworth are hard to imagine as anything but ageless.

His thoughts are still getting away from him on the subject when the screen door opens and closes behind him.

The hairs bristle on Damian's neck and he doesn't have to turn around to know who it is.

It's the cane that's a dead giveaway.

Damian hugs his knees a little tighter and ignores Titus' triumphant return. Even when the dog shoves his cold nose against Damian's cheek.

When Damian is obviously not responding, Titus turns to his other master just as happily instead, tail wagging.

"I got tired of hearing the same thing," Father answers the unasked question. Titus sits by his leg, tail picking up momentum. "I saw you from my window. You looked…"

Shaking slightly, at the wind, Damian grips his knees until knuckles whiten. "Childish?"

"Distracted," Father tries for instead. "You've been very… private about your feelings on all of this from the start, Damian. It's made us very concerned with how you're handling it."

"I don't want to talk about it."

There's a distinct rustling and Damian looks up just as he realizes what Father -- his hair, grayed by this unnatural process, now a snow white -- is planning on doing. He drops his legs and moves to reach out, to stop his parent somehow.

"Father, _don't--"_

"I can still get up and down," Father responds, just as aggravated as he sounds in the mornings when they attempt to help him out of bed. Well, when _Grayson and Pennyworth_ help him out of bed. "And, son, we _need_ to talk."

If nothing can be said for their ilk, it should be known that they are a stubborn people, the Waynes.

Damian glares back. "I told you, I don't want to."

Father's thin lips flatten to a straight line. "Why not?"

"Because the Justice League should have caught this the first time," Damian growls. "There is no reason we should have taken this long to realize something was wrong. That we needed to help you. If we found out sooner…"

His mind trails off, because the solution to their problem is as amorphous and confounding as the problem itself.

"Then what, Damian?" Father asks flatly. It is not condescending nor critical. It seems… almost curious. "What would have happened? Do you think we would have found a cure? For something we're still not sure about how it works?"

Suddenly, Damian feels the hot, thick tears returning to his eyes. He reaches up and quickly rubs at them, keeping them at bay. There seems to be twice as much to fill their place each time he does. He rubs harder.

"You wouldn't give up if it was one of us," Damian hisses, hoping his words carry with them all the bile he's feeling. "Grayson wouldn't give up if it was one of us."

"No," Father responds, " We wouldn't. If it was one of you. I wouldn't stand for it."

 _"Why?"_ Damian begs, looking up to his father, ignoring the steaming wetness of his cheeks or how the wind is harshly hitting it like needles. Ignoring how Titus whines as he lays by father's legs, looking concerned for his boy. "Why are you accepting what those fools are saying?"

Father, so ancient in Damian's eyes now, ancient in ways Grandfather never was, seems to study Damian carefully before saying, "It's hard to understand, Damian. I… hope someday you do. But this… all of this… it is about _time._ And time, it seems, has caught up with me in more ways than one. I missed so much of you, of Dick, of Tim, of Cass… of _Jason_ … I knew I was running out. And even if I'm not happy with it, I knew I'd rather spend time with all of _you._ I didn't want to run out of time after gambling it all instead of appreciating my family."

Each word felt like daggers, and Damian feels his entire body shaking with each hit. He looks to the grass and shudders, even as Father somehow manages to pull his son under his arm and press Damian against his chest.

"When-when there was no cure," Damian mumbles, surprised he even has enough air to talk, "I told… I told Dick I knew where… where a _Pit_ was… I could… I could get us there. I know how."

"I know," Father says softly.

"He-he said _no_ … that… that we wouldn't save you that way." Damian's vision blurs and he sniffs uselessly. "Even if it's the _real_ you, it wouldn't save you. That-that doesn't make sense. _Why can't we save you?_ You saved the world. We can't even --"

"Dick is right," Father interrupts softly. He holds Damian closer, more warmly. "I wouldn't want that. And I don't think you want that either. Do you?"

"It's not fair," Damian whispers. "We were just starting to get along."

"I know," Father says, and Damian has to look up because it sounds watery. And, surely enough, as he gazes across the lawn, Father's eyes shine with tears, too. "And that's my fault, son. But… this isn't something we can trade off. This isn't… _Life_ isn't that way. So we have to make up for it with what we have. Whatever that may be."

Unable to bare the sight any longer, Damian buries himself into his Father's thick robes. "I'm not ready to say goodbye," he gasps into the fabric, praying his childishness isn't heard.

He feels the circles being rubbed into his shoulders. "Then we won't say it," Father whispers back.

*

Every step feels… constricting. Somehow.

Even as Tim tugs loose his tie and shakes his hair free, his chest grows tighter and he thinks about how much he wants to be free of this cloistered darkness. Still, he goes up the stairs and feels positively _suffocated._

It's one in the morning and he should be safe. Cassandra patrols every night, as does Jason. They won't be back until at least three, and since it's Friday Tim's sure that Batman and Robin are out with them. Alfred is either in the Cave or in Bruce's room, and if Tim's quiet enough he can _just_ make it to his room without attracting the butler's attention. It's the first night in two weeks that Red Robin won't be patrolling the East End almost as silently as Black Bat.

This is a song and dance Tim has been doing for nearly five months now. He's almost perfected it.

He also feels like the cliff is right upon him.

The goal tonight had been to wrap up business at WE instead of going on patrol. Despite being unable to sleep regularly for months, Tim can't find time between the cases he puts himself on and the teeth grinding press releases about the approaching and secretive death of billionaire Bruce Wayne to do any of the documentation and management that is his actual job at WE.

Today, the day set aside for doing his actual work, which has piled up to enormous and enclosing size for over two weeks now, Tim fell asleep. For the first time in months.

He fell asleep in his office at six thirty this morning despite five cups of coffee between ending patrol and making it to the office. He woke up just shy of midnight, with none of the work done.

After his gut told him otherwise, to wait on it, Tim tendered his resignation and left the sealed envelope in Lucius' office.

It is amazing that after over twelve hours of rest, Tim still feels as though he could sleep for eternity.

Honestly, it's a tempting idea, as he approaches his room, to just crawl into the dark alcove and allow himself to be swallowed by it. To _not_ wake up would be wonderful.

Yet even these thoughts make him miserable. Because… because _how can he be so selfish?_ Already everyone is mad at him. He knows they are. How could they not be? He has been no help since initially figuring out Bruce was sick. He's barely even been in the Manor, and when he is it's always his room or the Cave.

Tim can't even remember the last time he shared a meal with a single member of the house.

When he reaches his door, he settles his hand on the knob and leans into the door's surface. It's cool despite the smothering heat of a mid-July night. He flattens himself against it and closes his eyes.

"I quit," he whispers to the shadows. "The only thing you've asked me to do when you're gone, Bruce… And I can't do it anymore."

He can physically feel his shoulders caving in, his body tremble. He knows that if it wasn't for the door he would be a puddle on the floor, and yet that still doesn't feel low enough for him.

It's at this moment, when Tim thinks there can't possibly be anything left for him in this house, he feels an odd swarm of _inspiration._

Shoving off from the door facing, onto unsteady feet, Tim turns to face down the hall, past his siblings' rooms, down to the very last of the bedrooms.

Suddenly, the very thing that he could not physically accomplish for months now becomes a _burning desire_ in him and he begins to drag himself, one foot after another, toward Bruce's master bedroom. To the man he has avoided like the plague, despite seeing him on every screen, in every report, in every _thought._

Tim opens the door. It's almost brazen the way it's an action before it's a thought.

Bruce is -- and Tim's heart clutches at how he sees it for himself in every vivid detail he has been avoiding for so long -- elderly. Not _feeble_ in the way one would expect after aging half a lifetime in the span of only a few months, but old. Slowed. He lacks vigor, and Tim feels as though he's intruded upon the future. That he's not meant to see any of this.

Batman -- Bruce -- is never supposed to grow old.

But Bruce, old and ancient as he may be, is still _Bruce_ and before Tim can collapse back in on himself and his dread of the next day, flee back to the sanctity of the one corner of this vast mansion he calls his own still, opens his eyes and bores his Batman glare right at the door.

It freezes Tim in his spot.

When the silence goes on a moment too long, just as Tim's realizing he can still back away and escape consequence, Bruce raises up to a less prone position and reaches for the lamp, turning it on and locking eyes with Tim again.

The old Batman actually blanches. "Tim?"

"I… I didn't mean to wake you," Tim stutters, even though he did. "I. This is. I'm sorry. I just wanted to-- I don't know. I'm sorry. I'll go back to my --"

"Don't," Bruce says, though it's certainly Batman's bark. Tim freezes up on instinct.

When it's obvious Tim has no intention of moving, Bruce follows with a softer, "Please."

"Okay," Tim responds. He doesn't make any move from his spot in the doorway.

Everything in the world capable of it seems to be staring at Tim. It's just him and Bruce in the room but Tim can imagine that everyone, somehow someway, _knows_ what Tim just did, what he was originally planning on saying and doing when he entered that room.

Tim wishes they'd let him in on it, even though he's sure it's awful.

"We," Bruce is struggling with arthritic fingers to fix his shirt somehow without taking his eyes off Tim. He seems awkward in the moment, too. "We… need to catch up."

"On?" Tim can list every criminal processed in Arkham and Blackgate backward and forward. He updated all the files and reorganized them based on psychological profile last week instead of signing off on papers Tam had already done the legwork on.

That seems to catch Bruce off guard.  His face draws together. "On… you."

"Oh," Tim says, because he honestly isn't sure what that means. It feels… accusing somehow in a way he can't pin down.

After what feels like an entire minute of being under the microscope, Tim crosses the threshold of the master bedroom. For some reason, the manor doesn't collapse around him after he does so, and Bruce seems to even ease up from his bed. Still, Tim doesn't dare come closer.

"I'm… I don't do much," Tim says lamely, feeling highly uncomfortable with the subject. It's hard to make an entire conversation about all the ways he's let people down lately. Starting with Bruce. So it shocks him when the next bit, "I quit WE tonight," tumbles out of his mouth.

There is an almost _alien_ silence between them.

Tim's already rocking back on his heels to begin darting out the door, "I'm sorry" and "I can break into Lucius' office and grab the letter" on the tip of his tongue when all the tension in Bruce seems to go lax and the man actually _smiles_ at him.

"I'm… glad to hear that, Tim," Bruce says.

The pivot that Tim hadn't even realized was already in motion somehow twists as Tim cries "What?"

The ungraceful maneuver ends with Tim a heap of person on the floor and Bruce getting up from his bed.

"Tim!?" Bruce calls out in concern as Tim rearranges his limbs and springs up from the floor, wondering why his body is moving so lightly.

"I'm -- don't get up, Bruce, please -- I'm fine. I…" Tim's already next to Bruce and gently pushing him back onto the pillows while his brain does its own cartwheels. He then looks seriously to his father, feeling like he dreamed up the last segment of their conversation. "What did you say? _You're glad?"_

Bruce, features sharp but unbelievably hollow looking in the dim lamp's light, is scrutinizing Tim. "Of course, I'm glad. You're working yourself too hard."

Despite the momentary weightlessness of being in action, Tim feels the familiar clench of his body again. He drops his eyes from Bruce and shakes his head. He feels… so much dread, and yet he knows he could not drop any further in Bruce's eyes.

"I… actually I quit because… I've not done my job -- my real job for WE -- in weeks. I've piled it off on Lucius and Tam and… that's not right, if I'm going to be _working_ I'm going to be doing my job. Not making them do it and taking the credit for it," he says, feeling cold splashes in his gut with each admission.

"Ridiculous," Bruce huffs.

Tim is actually trying to draw the sheets up a little higher when the word finally hits him. He looks up at Bruce.

"Uh," he manages intelligently before shaking his head and looking more serious. "What now?"

"You're describing what I did in the exact same position for almost twenty years."

Suddenly, Tim feels like his world is spinning. _That's not how he meant it, that's not how he meant it at all._ "No, no -- I mean…"

"And I was miserable about it even _then,"_ Bruce grinds out before grabbing Tim by the chin and lifting his head up. It's an action so shocking that Tim doesn't even know what to do other than to allow Bruce to swivel his head back and forth as he sees fit. "You look terrible, Tim. Are you sleeping? When was the last time you had one of Alfred's meals? I bet you're eating nothing other than fast food."

Tim blinks. "Is… this happening right now?"

"And you haven't spent any time with the family since Cassandra got back -- I know you haven't, Dick told me."

"I know… I'm-I'm so, _so_ sorry, Bruce. About that _and_ WE."

Bruce, mercifully, releases Tim's chin and looks Tim right in his eyes. "To hell with WE. Lucius does a fine job running it. I don't know why you think I'd be bothered if you were less miserable by _not_ being there."

That makes Tim shake his head and balk. "Wh-why!? _Bruce!_ You… Your will. You put me in charge of WE." He grabs onto the man's shoulders as gently as he could while still trying to get the point across. "You _trusted_ me with it. With keeping us -- with keeping _Batman_ \-- financially secure. To keep the family in control of it. And… And when you need me to do that the most, don't you realize I let you down? I _quit_ today. It was the one thing you asked me to do."

Admitting his guilt, Tim lowers his head and lets out the sob that had been choking his chest since he got home. "I couldn't do the one thing…"

Tim is unsuspecting when he's pulled closer, when his chin is lifted again to meet Bruce's eyes -- the only part of him that still looks the proper age. They're sharp and wise and _loving_ in a way that makes Tim feel even less deserving than before.

"The only thing I would ever want from you, Tim," Bruce responds gently, almost soothingly, "is for you to _live_ and be _happy_ with the life and opportunities I can afford to you."

He feels like a child, like a child he never really was to begin with, his eyes leaking tears that Bruce's thumb caresses away.

"I'm sorry."

"Why?" Bruce asks, looking at Tim's cheeks as he rubs the tears away.

"I don't know," Tim admits. "It's… it all feels like my fault. And I can't… I can't do anything right. The company. Here at home. I'm… I'm sorry that I didn't find you sooner. I'm sorry that I didn't figure out what was wrong sooner. I-I'm sorry about not being here for anyone and for not being any help at work. I'm just… _so_ sorry  about things. And I don't feel like I have any control anymore."

"Sounds like you need to stop being sorry," Bruce says, almost idly before looking Tim in the eyes again. "I'm dying, Tim. That has nothing to do with you, your brothers, your sister, or Alfred. And it certainly has nothing to do with who files the taxes for a Fortune 500 company."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Tim releases the ugly sobs and tears he has held back since the first time he knew Bruce wasn't going to make it. He feels his shoulders quake with it. It is a _certainty_ that he will be fatherless and orphaned again. For the second time.

"I hate that job," Tim manages between gasps of air, he looks at Bruce earnestly. "I _hate it."_

Bruce actually _laughs,_ and Tim, despite himself, finds himself joining him between his sobs. "It's a good thing you quit then, because I was about to have Lucius fire you so you'd come home." 

Tim sits, or more _falls_ into a sitting position, on the corner of Bruce's bed. The old man reaches for his nightstand and gets the last of the tissues. He hands them to Tim who uses them immediately.

"You wouldn't," Tim manages at last.

"I was placing the call in the morning," Bruce says, opening his drawer for a second box. "My… _condition_ has made my patience short and my inhibitions shorter."

That earns an earnest smile from Tim. "I can see that," he says before blowing into the tissues again.

The air feels… _lighter_ for the first time in a very, very long time.

Still, the misery doesn't stay at bay for long, and Tim looks into his lap with a shake of his head. "I… I don't know what I'm going to do now. Besides…" He frowns, grasping at ideas for what he has in his life. "I don't even know what Tim Drake-Wayne does anymore."

"That's… difficult," Bruce manages, looking sorrowfully at Tim. "I… don't have answers either, Tim. But… I'm sorry I pushed you to this point. Let you take yourself for granted all this time."

Tim looks to his hands, twists them together in his lap. "I … think I might make up with Dick. And the others. I… I've been… drowning for a long time. And I was too scared about taking them down with me to… to realize I might not be the only one."

"Hnn," Bruce responds before laying back against the fortress of pillows that now make up his headboard. "Don't do it in my room. Dick uses enough of my tissues crying over me. I don't have enough for him to be crying out of _joy."_

Tim looks over his shoulder. "You think he'd be happy with me? I've barely talked to him since…"

Bruce's level glare is enough to answer that question.

Instead Tim reaches over to turn off the light. When Bruce's hand grabs him to stop him, Tim looks back to the aging man.

"I want you to be happy, Tim," Bruce says with the most serious face Tim thinks he has ever seen the man wear. "Above all else. I want that for you."

Tim sighs, tired. "I… can't promise that, Bruce. Not right now." He meets Bruce's eyes. "I could be gone tomorrow, maybe begging Lucius for my job back. But… hearing that. From you." He slides his hands from Bruce's grip in order to hold his father's hand instead. "You made me more happy right now than I've been in a long time. And… for _you,_ I'll try. Damn it, I will _try."_

Slowly, Bruce nods, seemingly pleased. "Thank you, Tim."

Tim smiles back at him. "Thank _you,_ Bruce." He reaches over with one hand to turn off the lamp and quickly returns it to gripping Bruce's. He leans over and presses his lips to Bruce's temple. "Thank you for everything."

He hesitates a little longer, waiting for Bruce's breathing to even out, before gradually lifting himself off the bed. It feels as though his head is swimming in cotton and he does little more than make the observation that tears are still falling, free range, down his cheeks.

Somehow in this state, Tim makes it to his room, quietly closes the door, and goes through his bedtime routine before sprawling across his mattress. Bruce's words -- _I want you to be happy -- I want that for you -- Thank you, Tim_ \-- swirl in his head.

He's not sure how long he's been on his bed, or if at any point he was fully asleep or not, but he stirs at the soft rapping at his door. It leaves and is followed by a less careful knuckle drag that falls far lower on the door.

It's still a hot, dark knight in July, but it's the first time Tim's felt enough relief to breathe.

*

The basket Stephanie gave her works perfectly (even if her friend insists that the baked goods _inside_ the basket were the actual gift). Cassandra easily packs into it the prototype material, the thread and needle, her book, and the photo album.

It is a special photo album. Tim and Alfred have worked on it together for the past week, barely keeping Dick away from it.

That's why it is under Cass' care when Tim and Alfred aren't using it. They trust it to her. She threatens Dick's sneaky fingers when he tries things. He's made significantly less attempts since she started carrying around needles.

Jason and Damian, after being responsible for a muddy Titus destroying Cass' favorite Afghan, have kept their interest in the album low. She finds this to be progress.

They are _all_ progressing. In small ways. In the ways that matter.

Her trip today is a short one. She prefers to rotate where she works, who she keeps an eye on in the manor.

Cass wonders if this is the duty she has missed out in all the time she was away from Gotham -- away from her family. Being the one to calmly, silently, keep watch. To remind them -- wild personalities not withstanding -- what the Bat stood for. What the _Waynes_ stood for.

It's been observed more than once that Dick is their glue, that he sticks to each and every one of them in his own ways, bonds to them. He keeps them connected and close. That Jason is their soul, he burns with passion and he rocks them to their core, tests their loyalties and perspectives. That Damian is their sword, as he pierces enemies and dives for the heart of matters, keeps them honest and pure. That Tim is their shield, that he protects and envelopes and deflects for them without commentary on how he is, in turn, battered and bent in the process.

But Cassandra? She knows her purpose. But it's abstract. Words are hard, and she sometimes feels they're too limiting.

Today, she turns her shoulder and nudges open Tim's cracked door, comforted by the sounds of him typing and the fact that his blinds and curtains are bore open.

He's in a sweatshirt, ratty old jeans, and gym socks that hang over the tips of his toes. He's crossed legged on his bed, the drawstring of his sweat shirt between his teeth as he looks intently at his laptop screen. Tim looks healthy.

Tim looks like Tim, Cass thinks. She hopes he feels like Tim, too.

"Hey," he says without looking up. The string falls from his mouth but he doesn't seem to notice.

"It is hot," Cass reminds him as she pulls herself onto the bed and curls up against his back. She is in leggings and a tank top. She thought about not wearing anything at all. Tim and Alfred prefer she doesn't do that when the doctors are liable to see, though.

"Yeah?"

"You're in…" she stops and turns to look at him seriously. "Are you cold?"

"Would you sew me something to keep me warm?" he asks as he clicks on a link. "Do you want silence or do you mind if I play something on Garageband?"

"Maybe," Cass answers the first. "And I like your music. Reminds me of… mosh pits. Dancing."

Actually stopping his typing, Tim looks back at her at last. "Mosh pits? You know what mosh pits are?"

Smirking, Cass raises her hands up and sways a bit to badly simulate the very thing. When she starts to rock the bed with her head banging, Tim finally laughs and pushes back on her back to let her know he got the picture. Hard drums a ripping guitar begin to fill the room as Cass finishes her display.

She gets out her material and needle and begins work in an environment only their family could find relaxing, she thinks. Barbara certainly doesn't play Tim's music in the Tower, that much is for sure.

Over time, they've all come to find that each other's company makes things easier. Slightly. It's easier to remember what they have in each other currently. What they _need_ each other for.

It's not much to many, perhaps, but it's something.

Cass stitches carefully and ignores the frown the draws itself on her face as the thought comes up that, for her, it's perhaps all she _has._

She forgot once, through a trial by fire, what her family meant to her. She pulls the thread through hard, ignoring the bead of blood on the tip of her thumb that results from a needle prick.

This project, it will keep her aware, remind her what is not going to be lost in the future. And that's why, even as a prototype, it's going to be perfect.

Because it represents what she is going to be for her family… in time.

All in time.

They work in tandem for some time before a familiar noise draws both of their attention to the doorframe where Dick is sticking his head in.

Dick, unlike Tim, does not look so healthy. But he is… _calm,_ Cass believes. She can see it in the way his worry lines have eased and how he sleeps longer than her after patrols now.

Progress.

"Timmy -- oh, hey, Cass," he greets with what Cass has heard Jason refer to as a _thousand watt_ smile. His eyes then turn directly to Tim. "Lil' Brother, Alfred has lunch ready and says he expects you down in five. And, seriously, no more. I'll use Jason. I'm not above abusing that card more than once in a week."

It's true, Cass can tell. There's not an ounce of regret in Dick's threats.

Tim's expression sours. "I can get down myself, thank you," he pouts.

"Ah huh," Dick returns before leaning in a little further and looking to Cass. "Guess I know where you're taking lunch today, huh?"

Cass only smiles in return, neatly gathering her things back in her basket. She has a lunch date every day, and she wouldn't miss it for the world.

Sliding off the bed, Cass leans in enough to plant a kiss on Tim's temple, leaving a thick smear of purple gloss on his skin. It earns her a frustrated whine of, _"Cass!"_ and a half-hidden smirk.

When she walks past Dick, he bows just enough and closes his eyes gently. She rewards him with a kiss on his right cheek, pressing extra hard to give him a perfect mark. He will proudly wear it as a badge for the rest of the afternoon if Titus doesn't lick it off first.

"Thank you, Lil' Sister," Dick says fondly.

Instead of down the stairs to the kitchen, Cassandra makes her way through the corridors and toward the third floor parlor. Stairs and cumbersome and the Manor's ancient architecture, particularly on the extensions' upper floors unaffected by the quake rebuild, have led to restrictions on where Bruce can get around on his own.

At this point, though, there is precious little he gets around to on his own.

A man trapped in the body of an aging tomb, he waits patiently on her in the parlor, already in his favorite spot, the food from the dumbwaiter already on the cart and pulled over to him.

He's not supposed to do that. Cass knows he gets unashamed amusement out of testing their rules.

"That's my job," Cass says lightly as she crosses the room and stoops down to kiss the ancient man's bladed head.

He smirks. "I know."

She takes her seat, beside him, refusing to remember how, not so long ago, there would have scarce been room in this chair for her to sit on Bruce's lap, let alone beside him on the seat itself. Cass tucks herself into his side and opens the cover-dish to the food that awaits them. Finger sandwiches and soup.

"I want to read today," she says around one of her sandwiches.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," he chides her as he goes for the soup. "Do you have a book?"

Cassandra nods as she swallows. Bruce raises a brow at her as he sips on his spoon.

Age has made Bruce skeletal, his body tiny, but he has a _sharp_ mind made only sharper by morbidity. Cassandra wishes she could have more time to see this Bruce. To watch him.

But she cannot. None of them can. Because they are losing him.

Somehow, someway, Cassandra and her brothers must find a way to accept this fact. She thinks, even though they do not speak of it outside of glances and sad sighs between silences, each of them are. In small ways. In ways that still hurt, that are tender.

It is all about progress. And it can be difficult, even though it's so simple.

Like reading.

Bruce is warm and fitted to her side, and she to his. They're a pair, and that is why she is so calm about waiting until he has finished as much of his soup as he can before she lightly pushes the tray away with her foot and reaches down into her basket for their book. The bookmark is still in its place, ready.

She practiced all night for this, she can feel her heart patter. She wants him to be _proud._

As she turns gleefully to the page, Bruce reaches down and puts on the reading glasses fashioned around his neck. There's a fond upturn to his lips as Cass settles back alongside him.

 _"'Dance,"_ Cass announces with gusto, "at Grandpa's.'"

His gentle squeeze of her arm gives her a warm reassurance and Cass feels delighted. She curls in tighter to him.

"'Monday… _morn_ ing every-body… got up early… in a hurry to… to-to get started… to Grandpa's…'"

The reading goes on, to the "Buffalo gals" and "doe see doe" -- it takes longer than their normal afternoons. They always do when it is Cass reading to Bruce instead. But the chapter is small, the words rhythmic and there's barely a stutter as Laura is in the sled, watching the last of the sugar snow. And Cass feels _so_ proud.

She has been reading to Bruce more and more, picking up his part. He seems to approve, seems proud in the way his chest swells and his eyes shine as he looks more at her face than following along on the page.

It's why she is glad to show him the prototype today.

When they finish the book and set it aside, he nods silently to the basket, a little curious, and she reaches down to pick up the fabric and suit.

By no means is it finished, nor would it ever be street ready without kevlar enforcements, but it is a new suit all the same.

It is her suit. Not the one Bruce gave her as a girl. Not the suit Tim offered her as a woman.

This is the suit Cassandra has slaved over for the past month -- designing, redesigning, fitting, sewing -- on her own. As a _Bat._

The gold Bat is in full flourish on the chest, eye catching, epitomizing. It is his symbol and her symbol.

"It's… _me,"_ she explains, looking to him, chest swelling as her eyes prickle with tears. "It's _you._ And… it's a new Bat. That's who I'll be. When you're gone. Because there _will_ be a Bat, but I can't be the same… person when you're gone. I want. I want to show that. So everyone knows, too."

Bruce's eyes seem far off and misty as he looks _through_ the material as much as any mortal man could. He removes his glasses and tenderly rubs at his eyes with gnarled fingers. It's hard, he's shaking.

Cass leans forward, dropping the suit to her lap. Her more delicate and nimble fingers make quick work of the obtrusive tears and Bruce blinks rapidly.

"You don't have to do that," he whispers, barely audible. They're talking about many things at once. "That's my job."

"I know," she whispers. She leans her forehead forward, rests against his. Her own tears fall down her cheeks. "But I… I am the _Mission._ I remember… our goal. I _know_ it. I keep… us honest. I drive us harder. I will do… what's best. To keep Gotham whole. To keep the _family_ whole. We are all… little pieces. And we struggle apart. But together, we are… _legacy,_ your _life,_ and it makes us stronger. _You_ make us stronger. I will remember that. I will keep that. Forever."

With an old and withered hand, Bruce reaches up and directs Cass' head down to where he can press a warm and trembling kiss to her cheek.

She holds her father as they cry and waits for the next part of their story to begin.


End file.
